But to begin, for though 'tis rather long, My poem I'll comprise into twelve stanzas, Or fourteen at the furthest, if my song Don't run to twenty--I'll offend no man, sirs, If I can help it. So now I'm along The road, and beg you'll notice these two lancers, Who, on the backs of horses full of mettle Hold a dispute, which we'll leave them to settle, While you go with me, reader, kind and good, To a small tributary stream from Tweed, Which, if you don't know, as I'm in the mood, I'll do my best to teach you, if you'll read; I'll introduce you to the stream Glenrude-- This name will do--'twas in a glen--indeed, 'Twas not its proper name--'twill do quite well, Why I choose so to call it I shan't tell, But still it was a very pretty river, Or rather stream, as ever could be seen-- If not so wide as the great Guadalquiver, Its banks were nearly always clothed in green, (Save when in winter the winds made you shiver,) While the waves, bickering so bright and sheen, Put you in mind of Avon, Rhine, or Hellespont, Or any other stream to admire you're wont. And round about the stream there were huge hillocks, And firs and mountains, houses too and farms; A maid lay on the grass--her light and fair locks Were gently wound around her folded arms, While softly grazing near there stood a huge ox, And o'er her head an old oak threw its arms. She was asleep, when, lo! the sound of horses' Feet woke her, and, behold, she saw two corses. At least she thought so--but at last thought better 'Twould be for her to get up and go home; She got up quickly, and would soon have made her Way home, but that the men who had just come Spurr'd past her, and alighted when they met her, While she with her surprise was almost dumb; But soon spoke she, and bade them both disclose Their names--to which one said, "I'm Richard Groze." The next spoke not at first, but soon replied, "Pray wherefore are you so surprised, my dear? And wherefore, likewise, have you not complied With my request, which I have sent in near Some good score letters? which you did deride, When they were forwarded by this man here." He pointed then to Groze, and then he sighed, "My dear, dear Jeannie, will you be my bride?" The which words when our Jeannie heard, she stared, And said, "What do you mean, John Fitzadree? You talk of letters, but of them the laird Has never brought a single one to me; But when I've seen him I have never cared How soon he went, for he told me that ye Were either dead or faithless--so he said I'd better wed the live, than mourn the dead.